Lawrence Sanders - Timothy's game

Johnnie Wong, frowning, considers it for a moment. Then: “I’ll buy that. Mostly because it’s the way United Bamboo operates: they’re tough, direct, violent. They prefer physical action to reading SEC regulations before they move.”

“Have you guys got snitches in United Bamboo?”

The FBI man gives him a blazing grin. “You don’t expect me to answer that, do you? I will neither confirm nor deny.”

“Okay, then I reckon you do,” Cone says. “How about contacting your plants and find out if United Bamboo is holding Edward Tung Lee.”

“I’ll try,” Wong says cautiously.

“You’ve got to do better than that,” Cone urges. “This thing has to be wrapped up by Monday, or I may end up in a pig farm.”

“All right, I’ll move on it as soon as I get back to the office.”

“When will I hear from you?”

“Depends. You’ll be home tonight?”

“Oh, yeah,” Cone say. “With the door locked, bolted, and chained.”

“Why don’t you teach Cleo karate?” Johnnie Wong suggests.

After the black Chrysler pulls away, Cone goes around the corner to a deli and buys a whole barbecued chicken, a container of potato salad, and two dills. He carries the fragrant bag back to the loft, rips it open, and starts on his dinner, after twisting the tail off the chicken and tossing it to Cleo.

He eats slowly and methodically because he’s got a lot to brood about. He figures he’s done all he can on Edward’s kidnapping; now it’s up to Johnnie Wong. But that’s not what’s bothering him; it’s the threatening letter Claire Lee received and those phone calls to Edward Lee.

Cone’s first idea had been that the United Bamboo mob was behind both letter and calls. But that no longer makes sense. You don’t act like a blackmailer on the phone and then kidnap your intended victim. And it couldn’t have been the Giant Pandas for the reason he had given Wong: Edward Lee is playing kneesy with that gang.

Which means, if Cone’s reasoning is half-assed correct, there’s a wild card in the deck: some free-lancer out to make a nice score by leaning on Claire and Edward. Timothy can’t totally buy that notion, but it’s the best he can come up with.

He gives the wingtips to Cleo and starts on the second leg, pausing occasionally to gulp potato salad or chomp on a pickle. He’s drinking a beer with his meal and making it last because he only wants a single before getting back to vodka.

Vodka, he sincerely believes, is a great aid to mental labor because it frees the mind of discipline and diminishes linear thinking. You can fly on vodka, and if ever a case demanded an unfettered, soaring brain, the White Lotus caper is it.

He bundles up the de-winged, de-legged, de-tushed carcass of the bird and puts it in the fridge along with the remains of the potato salad and the second pickle. He reckons it’ll make a nice Saturday morning brunch. Cleo can have the neck and back.

Then he goes back to his cigarettes and vodka. He runs out of ice cubes, but that doesn’t annoy him. What nags is a feeling that he’s missing something in this whole cockamamy jumble. He’s missing something or someone is jerking him around. Either way, he doesn’t like it.

Johnnie Wong hasn’t called by 11:00 P.M., or midnight, or 1:00 A.M. Finally Cone gives up and undresses. He checks the door, turns off the lights, rolls onto his mattress. The magnum in its holster is close at hand. Cleo comes padding up to curl into the bend of his knees. The two of them sleep, both snoring gently.

When the phone rings, Cone comes groggily awake. It’s still dark. He stumbles over to the wall phone, cursing when he stubs his toe on the refrigerator.

“Yeah?” he says, his voice thick with sleep.

“Aw,” Johnnie Wong says, “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“What time is it?” Cone asks.

“After five. But don’t complain; I’ve been up all night.”

“Any results?”

“Oh, yeah. I think we got a world-class flap on our hands. Listen, can you meet me down on the street in front of your place in about twenty minutes?”

“Sure. What’s going on?”

“I want to drive you somewhere, and I’ll tell you about it on the way.”

Cone dresses quickly, straps on his shin holster, makes sure he’s got cigarettes and matches, waggles his fingers at a drowsing Cleo, relocks the door, and clatters downstairs to an early morning that’s just beginning to break over Brooklyn.

Timothy hasn’t been out at that hour in a long time, and it’s nice. The air is fresh-it hasn’t yet been breathed by a million other people-and the sky is a patchwork of grays and violets. Stars are fading, and an unexpectedly cool August breeze is coming from the northwest. Sprinkler trucks have wet down Broadway; the pavement gleams in the pearly light.

Johnnie Wong is late, but Cone waits patiently, walking up and down slowly, smoking his first Camel of the new day. When the Chrysler arrives, Cone slides into the passenger seat.

“Hey, old buddy!” the FBI man cries, clapping him on the shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep.”

Cone looks at him closely. “Christ, you’re wired,” he says. “Haven’t been popping bennies, have you?”

“Nah, I’m just hyper. A lot going on, and it could make me a hero or leave me looking like a putz.”

He starts up, turns eastward, accelerates down a deserted street.

“Great morning,” he says. “Best time of the day. No traffic. No pollution. Everything fresh and clean.”

“That’s what you wanted to tell me?” Cone says. “How wonderful the world is at six o’clock in the morning?”

Wong laughs: “Not exactly. Listen, you were right; the United Bamboo pirates are holding Edward Lee. They grabbed him late Thursday afternoon. It took me all night to authenticate that, and I had to call in a lot of chits.”

“Where have they got him?”

“Where we’re heading: Doyers Street in Chinatown. The Yubies’ headquarters. That’s what I call them-the Yubies. From the ‘U’ and ‘B’ in United Bamboo.”

“You don’t have to draw me a diagram,” Cone says.

“God, you’re grouchy early in the morning.”

“I’m always grouchy.”

“Well, the Yubies have three or four hangouts that we know about. Mostly in Manhattan, but one in Queens. Anyway, their headquarters is on Doyers Street in a five-story tenement. They’ve got the whole building except for a ground-floor restaurant, which happens to be the best dim sum joint in Chinatown. Edward Lee is being held in a third-floor office. He’s been roughed up a little, but he’s alive and okay. At least he was a couple of hours ago.”

“You guys going in for him?”

“Ah, there’s the rub. That’s why I’m taking you to see the place. It’s a fucking fortress.”

Even at that early hour Chinatown is bustling. Merchants are taking down their shutters, street vendors are setting up their stalls, the narrow streets are crowded with men and women carrying live ducks, dead mackerel, and net bags filled with fruits and vegetables. Tea houses are already open for business, and the whole area has a raucous vitality.

Wong finds a parking space on Chatham Square. As they walk back to Doyers, he describes the setup.

“The entrance to the Yubies’ headquarters is alongside the dim sum restaurant. There’s an iron grille door on the street, kept locked, a small vestibule, and then a steel door painted to look like wood. Also kept locked. And if that wasn’t enough, there are always two United Bamboo soldiers on the sidewalk outside the entrance. Twenty-four hours a day. I figure they’re carrying. They don’t let anyone inside the iron grille or the steel door unless they’re recognized or expected. There’s an intercom to the upper floors and also an alarm bell the guards can sound in case they get jumped.”